Better the Enemy You Know
by Deliverer
Summary: He was so familiar to them. They'd never expected this to occur. They'd thought the man would never be out of their hair. They'd thought nothing would ever happen to him. He was too careful, too suspicious about anyone and everyone, too self-loving… But here it was… It couldn't be true, yet it was right in front of them... And they just didn't know how to react...
1. MIA Presumed Dead

_**Better the Enemy You Know**_

(A/N: In my multi-chapter story, Copycat Spy, it was heavily implied that Klink, Burkhalter, Hochstetter, or all three were the superspy Nimrod. The key word there is implied. However, despite that, I have decided it doesn't _have_ to be one of, if not all of, those three. So, I plan on fixing around a couple of things in Copycat Spy and removing a couple of chapters that went overboard on the implications. I also intend to revamp my oneshot, Who Could Nimrod Be, so that it flows better and so that it includes all the potential Nimrods that I will be dancing around with until I determine once and for all who Nimrod will be. I've already eliminated some, but what's the harm in a little intrigue? There are plenty of theories out there. Until then, I'm bringing you this Four-Shot exploring what a specific group of characters' reactions to the potential demise of a key character in Hogan's Heroes would be. Enjoy.)

MIA Presumed Dead

He was so familiar to them. They'd never expected this to happen. They'd thought the man would _never_ be out of their hair. They'd thought nothing would ever happen to him. He was too careful, too suspicious, about anyone and everyone, too self-loving… But here it was… It couldn't be true, yet it was right in front of them…

It was ironic, in a way. When the car had driven through Stalag 13's gates, they'd believed it to be him. No… No… How wrong they'd been… In all the time they'd been here they'd become so used to seeing the color black. Black cars, black uniforms, black guns, black powder, black smoke, black masks, black nights. They'd forgotten, until that moment, what the color black symbolized. Death… Mourning… It was ironic that the car they'd believed to ferry him into this camp was actually ferrying the news of his death.

Klink, as expected, had hurried to greet the man he believed had arrived. Burkhalter, as expected, was ready to rip into the visitor the knew it to be for interfering in his business with the Kommandant. The prisoners, as expected, retreated into the barracks to listen in on the conversation the Three Krauts would soon have… But it wasn't the one they expected… This wasn't the voice the prisoners had anticipated hearing. This wasn't the Major the German Colonel and General had become so accustomed to seeing. "Major Zolle? What are _you_ doing here?" Klink asked. Thus began the start of a conversation none of them would ever forget.

HH

"I am on business," Zolle casually answered, adjusting his gloves. The man was most certainly a psychopath, they all knew.

"Business? What _business_? This is Major Hochstetter's jurisdiction," Burkhalter testily shot, put out it hadn't been the usual arrival—and the General's second favorite scapegoat next to Klink, of course—who had come.

"Major Hochstetter? Oh, I am afraid the Major will not be coming to Stalag 13 any longer," Zolle stated, a sick and slightly delighted smirk spreading across his face.

"You mean he has been _transferred_?" Klink asked, almost hoping that were so. He despised the man, after all.

"He is dead," Zolle replied flatly. Klink paled, stiffening, and Burkhalter's mouth dropped. The prisoners gasped, looking at each other in shock and horror. "Well, missing in action _presumed_ dead. The charred remains of an unidentified body of his size and weight were found in the woods in a burned down barn along his usual route, bound to a bolted down chair. No doubt the Underground's doing. Naturally, his caseload fell to _me_."

HH

There it was, out in the open. MIA, presumed dead… In that moment many phrases came to their minds. Ones such as 'Better the devil you know than the devil you don't,' or 'May you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you're dead.' In that moment you could have heard a pin drop straight across the compound. In that moment a coldness washed over the Stalag, more frigid than any cooler could ever be, colder than Russia in winter. Dead, dead, dead…

It seemed as if time had frozen with those words, seemed as if never again would this silence be broken. It felt like it had been hours, months, _years_… but it was only mere moments, not even a processable unit in the eternal span of time, before finally one dared break it. "What?" Burkhalter asked in a hoarse whisper.

"The official report says MIA, presumed dead. _I_ say there is no presumption _about_ it. Your friend, Major Hochstetter, is dead. He has been murdered by the Underground," Zolle calmly repeated. Klink fell back in his seat, stunned silent. Burkhalter leaned on the desk, mouth still agape as he tried once more to make sense of what he was hearing.

"Colonel, you don't think he's really…" Carter began. Hogan had no response. _None_ of them did.


	2. The Prisoners

_**Better the Enemy You Know**_

The Prisoners

_Kinchloe_

Kinch sat at the radio, methodically tapping out a code. The Colonel had set to him the task of finding out if Zolle's assumption was correct; priority order. He was quiet as he awaited a reply, thinking deeply. It was funny, really, that he found himself pondering Hochstetter's role in their lives only now, after he was gone. No, he corrected himself, they _believed_ he was gone. There was no concrete proof at all that testified to that… But then where was Hochstetter…?

There was a saying by Mark Twain that went 'A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.' Kinch wondered, had _Hochstetter_ been prepared to die? Had Hochstetter lived fully? Somehow he doubted it. He'd never thought to try and analyze the man before now. He'd had no _reason_ to. Hochstetter was a Gestapo agent, for crying out loud. Their sworn enemy and a heartless killer. He was a monster…

No… He was a man, just a man, who had been caught up in a web he couldn't escape. A web he didn't have the strength to get out of. Had the Major truly been so coldblooded? He found he didn't know… Of course much was against him, war crimes and such, but there was also much _for_ him. Kinch remembered when they'd convinced the Major and Klink that the war had ended. He'd never seen Hochstetter look so confused and yet so-so relieved and at _peace_ before… The Major hadn't even dared believe it, almost as if he had found himself in a dream that gave him such a welcome respite from himself, from his life…

It hadn't taken much prodding on Hogan's part before the Major had given the use of his car over to the four Underground heads. The very Underground that he'd been sworn to destroy. He couldn't help but wonder; if the Major was so heartless, why had he so easily relented? He supposed now, though, that it was too late to try and figure out if Hochstetter had been as cruel as he seemed or if it were just a front. If the man was dead, it wouldn't matter anymore. It would be between him and any other power that may or may not exist.

_LeBeau_

Good Riddance was all he could say to this news; the fool Krauts. All of _Germany_ could die for all he cared. Hochstetter had gotten what was coming to him. He hated the man, _hated_ him. They _all_ had. His death was not a loss, it was a _blessing_. Finally, at least _one_ of the regular three officers was gone. Now all that was left were Burkhalter and Klink… So why did it feel so empty? Why did such a chill run through the Frenchman's bones as he repeated those words to himself over and over…?

It certainly wasn't because he thought much of the man. Perhaps it was just his uncertainty about Zolle. After all, they had known _Hochstetter_. They had known what made him tick, they'd known how to manipulate him. They had only once before seen Zolle. LeBeau couldn't help but remember a saying by E.B. Muar, a German ironically enough. It had gone something like 'Of two evils, choose the least.' _Surely_ that was the root of his unease.

Which Major, he wondered, had really been the least of the two evils? On the one hand, Hochstetter _always_ came, _always_ hunted them, and the man was clever, comparatively. He had always been the biggest threat to them in the Gestapo. On the other hand, Zolle… LeBeau shivered. Zolle he didn't trust. Zolle was not Hochstetter… Zolle was not Hochstetter… Zolle did not belong here with them. He _didn't_!

It was strange, he decided, as he analyzed his emotions while smoking a cigarette. He wanted to cry… He wanted to weep for a _Nazi_, a stupid Pig, a _German_. He wanted to weep for one who deserved no tears. That settled it; that was the last straw. He needed to get out of this war as soon as possible, before he started feeling sympathetic towards them. Although, to be fair, not _all_ of the soldiers and Gestapo had chosen this fate… No, bad LeBeau, go back to your cigarette.

_Baker_

He'd felt no love for the late Major. Hochstetter had been… Part of him wanted to say 'a thorn in their sides.' The other part told him that it would have only been a lie. Hochstetter had been a _part_ of their organization, a _vital_ part. Sure, it was indirect, but they had relied on him more than once. They had owed the success of some of their _missions_ to him, almost like he _planned_ it that way. Then again, he couldn't read much into _that_. Burkhalter and Klink had had their own moments where they seemed to have planned on helping them succeed.

Baker tried to be optimistic. The body hadn't been confirmed as the Major's. In fact, any minute now he expected to see Hochstetter drive in. He expected to hear him arguing with Klink and Burkhalter… Nothing… No matter how long he looked out the window for a glimpse of the man, there was nothing.

Bound to a chair… Had he been burned _alive_? How _painful_ had it been? For how long had he screamed for help or mercy? Did it matter? Hochstetter was Gestapo. The Underground had shown him about as much mercy as the Nazi's showed their prisoners. Tit-for-tat… Did they truly want to be as vicious as the Germans had been, though? Wouldn't that be sinking to their level? There was a saying by Friedrich Nietzsche that went, 'He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.' The Major was a Nazi… But dang it, he was still _human_!

No, no, he couldn't start believing the body to be Hochstetter's. He _wouldn't_. It couldn't be, for that would mean the Underground and the Allied forces had become no better than the enemy they were fighting… If Hochstetter was dead… If Hochstetter was dead, it would just throw off the whole balance of the thing. He'd never been one for change. _Especially_ when that change involved the fate of their operation.

_Newkirk_

He should have been cheering and celebrating. He should have been laughing and drinking and dancing… Nothing… He wasn't even moving… He just lay on his bed, looking up at the roof and trying to figure out why he felt so hollow. He was also trying to figure out why, instead of celebrating, he was mourning the alleged passing of their worst enemy, their monster, their Gestapo man…

Perhaps therein lay the answer. Theirs, theirs, _theirs_… Hochstetter had been theirs. It didn't matter that he was one of _them_, the unmentionable title that made him gag at the thought of saying it out loud. The Major had been _theirs_. Yes it was possessive, yes it was almost disgusting even to his _own_ mind that they had come to rely so much on the enemy, but he had been theirs… It was him they _knew_, him they could _understand_. That Major Zolle didn't belong here, didn't belong in Hochstetter's shoes. That just ruined _everything_, half the _fun_ in this job.

That Gestapo man had played such a large role in their lives. Newkirk had never admitted that to himself before, not until now, with the man's passing. But there it was, out in the open. The Gestapo man had played such a large role that they hadn't even _known_ the depth of it. They hadn't _understood_ how large it had been… Until now, when his body was lying cold and burnt beyond recognition… And it was _hard_… So, so, hard…

It was hard to understand, hard to comprehend, that they would never _see_ the Major again. They would never hear his familiar bellowing. They would never hear his regular arguments with Klink and Burkhalter. They would nevermore fish information from him, relishing the challenge and laughing at their victory over the man. They would never more be the subjects of his leniency; leniency which he so, _so_ rarely displayed, and only enough so to remind them that he _was_ human, not a monster. He wasn't a complete sociopath. Part of Newkirk said that perhaps, just perhaps, Hochstetter had actually respected and even tolerated them, to a degree. What did it matter now, though? He was gone, more likely than not, and it was just _wrong_. It was said that change was not an enemy… He'd believed it too, until _now_.

_Carter_

There was an old Native American saying, regarding death. 'They are not dead who live in the hearts they leave behind.' Somehow it seemed fitting to apply to Hochstetter, Carter determined. He never really cared much for the guy, sure, but he didn't really hate him either. Hochstetter had never been his concern. He was just another officer they interacted with on a regular basis. Hochstetter was always good for a laugh when he got together with Klink and Burkhalter… It would somehow seem empty without him around anymore.

Carter frowned. That tugged at his heartstrings more than it should have. He suddenly didn't feel very good, stomach flipping confusedly, unsure of what it should do. Sort of like _him_. With Hochstetter gone, he didn't know what to do. How was he supposed to react? Most would say with hatred and relief. After all, the Major had been Gestapo, he'd been a German, and he'd been, well, _evil_… But he felt only sadness… He felt sad because somehow… somehow it didn't seem right. Who was _he_ to judge another man's actions? Who was _anyone_?

He couldn't say that Hochstetter was evil and he couldn't say Hochstetter was good. He couldn't say the Major deserved death and he couldn't say the Major deserved to live. He didn't know the man's heart or his thoughts or _anything_. For all he knew the Gestapo man had been trapped in a tangled web, unable to escape it no matter what. Had Hochstetter wanted this to be his life, fighting a war, killing innocent people? Had Hochstetter chosen to do what he had done or was it just all part of the job? A job he'd been doing probably longer than this war had been _on_. Had the Major hated what had happened to him or could he care less?

Carter tossed uncomfortably in his bunk, trying to analyze the dead man. He couldn't, he just _couldn't_. He tried to make sense of everything, of what was happening. He tried to accept that the Major was gone, but his heart wouldn't let him. Maybe that was what Native American's had meant by saying dead men weren't dead if they lived in another's heart. Hochstetter was definitely on _his_, for better or worse… and somehow… Somehow Carter knew the Major was on the hearts of all the others as well…

_Hogan_

Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, so it was said. Better the devil you know than the devil you don't… That saying repeated itself in his mind over and over and over, tormenting his thoughts as he sat numbly at the table in his quarters, hands balled in front of his mouth. He was dead. Hochstetter was dead. No, he _might_ be dead. It wasn't a certainty. The thought that the statement could be confirmed at any minute, though… He shivered. He didn't believe he'd ever dreaded to hear any two words more than the ones that would forever echo in his mind. 'He's gone…'

He'd never realized, until now, just how huge a part the Major had played in some of their missions; a few of which would never have worked out without him. It was frightening, in a way, to realize it. What would happen now? What would happen if Hochstetter was really… was really dead? Better the devil you know than the devil you don't… Hochstetter was the devil they knew. Zolle was the devil they didn't. Somehow he doubted this current Major would be quite as lenient as Hochstetter had been, and Hochstetter _had_ been lenient. More than once they'd said or done something that he could have had them all shot for. He'd let it go, always let it go.

When it came to Klink, the Kommandant would have been executed time and time again if any other Gestapo officer had been dealing with him. Hogan had never been able to figure out just _why_ Hochstetter had given Klink so many breaks. _Especially_ since the Major despised Klink as much as _Burkhalter_ did, every fibre of his being just _hating_ the man. Why…? Why…? Now that Hochstetter was… was gone… Hogan found himself asking that question over and over, the word haunting him. Why had the Major done all he had? Why hadn't they seen how valuable, how _integral_, their enemy had been to their operation, until it was too late?

Kinch entered, eyes looking hollow and sad. He handed the message to him and left. Hogan looked at it blankly, reading. He was dead… He _had_ to be… This… this held too many coincidences for there to be any other explanation. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe Hochstetter was still living, because this neither confirmed nor denied to him, or to anyone, that the body in the barn had been their friendly neighborhood Gestapo man… Hogan didn't know what to think, anymore. He just didn't. To hate or not to hate? An enemy or a friend? Sometimes there was a fine line. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,' another saying that pushed its way into his mind. He hated this… He hated for once feeling so helpless and so hurt and so… so _lost_. He hated, hated, _hated_, that he was mourning one who deserved no sympathy, a monster who had earned no pity. He was mourning… he was mourning…


	3. The Germans

_**Better the Enemy You Know**_

The Germans

_Schultz_

He was sitting at the Hofbrau in town. He'd drunk more in the last hour he'd been here than he had for two _months_. Somehow it still wasn't enough to get his mind off of the news. Hochstetter… dead… gone… no more… He'd feared the man, he really _had_. He'd felt no love for him, no sympathy. He was absolutely _terrified_ of the Major. Bed wetting, knees knocking, terrified. Could you _blame_ him? There was absolutely nothing appealing about Hochstetter in any way, shape, or form. When angered, the man had no hint of charm or grace, bellowing and roaring at everyone and anyone who dared cross him… But he felt empty, and not even alcohol was filling the void.

He didn't know why he felt empty. _Why_ did he feel _empty_? Maybe it was because he didn't understand. He didn't understand a lot, it seemed. He didn't understand how Hochstetter, _Hochstetter_ of all people, could possibly have fallen so _easily_. Hochstetter was the single most intimidating man he knew, right after Burkhalter of course, Generals were always scary. Hochstetter wasn't afraid to play dirty, Hochstetter wasn't afraid to kill to save his skin and the skins of the men under him. Hochstetter wasn't afraid to break rules to protect something he loved…

But the Major had protected a _lot_. Hochstetter _certainly_ wasn't a very loving _man_. If love were the case he could just as well say Hochstetter loved Stalag 13, loved Klink, loved Burkhalter, loved the prisoners, loved Germany… But wait, Hochstetter _did_ love Germany. If nothing else, besides himself of course, Hochstetter loved Germany. _How_ he'd loved Germany. Schultz was plagued with confusion and indecision, plagued with thoughts on the Major. Something told him he hadn't even scratched the _surface_ of the Gestapo man. Now he never _would_, if the body was confirmed to be Hochstetter's, of course.

Schultz gazed at the beer in front of him. All at once he rose, leaving it behind and walking out into the night. The Major would have lost all control if he'd found him sitting there drinking beer. It seemed fitting, a tribute in a way, to just walk away from the drink; it was an honor to the dead man. What was the Major, really? _Who_ was he? Perhaps it was best he never knew. 'If you humanized your enemies,' and all that… If you humanized your enemies no one would be able to _kill_. No one would be able to _fight_ this war. If you came to know those you were slated to slaughter, you would be unable to. Maybe _that_ was why Klink remained untouched by Hochstetter, because he had made the mistake of getting to know him. Maybe that was why Hochstetter had remained untouched by _Burkhalter_. Maybe that was why Schultz himself, as well as the prisoners he knew, felt this void inside of themselves for the Major's sake.

_Hilda_

She'd told Hogan she couldn't stand the man. She hadn't lied. She _couldn't_ stand the Major, truly… But to see that car driving through those gates, to see the black uniform approaching the building, and to know that it wasn't Hochstetter who would be passing in front of her desk… it left her feeling cold. Zolle made her uneasy. She didn't trust him. He was not Hochstetter. He didn't belong in their Stalag and he would show them no mercy, no leniency.

'The fear of death follows from the fear of life,' she thought. It was a saying by Mark Twain, she believed. Hochstetter had feared death. If nothing else she knew _that_ about the man. Burkhalter certainly had used it enough against him. If there was truth in that saying, then Hochstetter had feared _living_ as much as he had _dying_. She tried to tell herself that such an idea was too absurd, too out of character, for the Major, but the more she thought on it the more she saw how true it _was_. Who _didn't_ fear life in these times? Hochstetter had more reason than most to fear it. War, turmoil, armies closing in, the Allied powers pushing back and moving steadily towards victory over Germany.

Thinking on it now, she was surprised that Hochstetter hadn't curled into a little ball and lost his mind, though he _was_ certainly mad, at least a little. She was surprised he hadn't taken a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Yes, the Major had feared life, for to live… it meant that one would die. And perhaps more than fearing life, Hochstetter had feared not being able to _live_ it. This war had certainly robbed him of enough of the temporary state that was mortality. Would he have become what he was, she wondered, if none of this had ever happened? She doubted it.

She hoped it wasn't him lying dead… She couldn't believe her own thoughts, but she sincerely hoped it wasn't him. It would be just… just _wrong_. It wouldn't… It wouldn't _fit_. He was evil, he was a monster, he was cruel… but he was a human being. He had a life. He felt what anyone else felt. He experienced pain and suffering, he experienced misery and mourning, he experienced hatred and love. Oh _how_ he'd loved Germany. He'd _hated_ what was happening to it. How he'd loved policing, how he'd despised what it had become. Did he detest the crimes he was slated to carry out, or was it all routine for him? She'd believed he'd been as brainwashed by Hitler as anyone else, but had he _really_ been, or was it just something he'd told himself to try and keep what little remnant of sanity and normality he had been left with, most of it having been stripped away by grief and anger. She wished she'd known.

_Strauss_

The bespectacled young man sat in the cemetery gazing at nothing. There was no relative here, no loved one, no nothing. Not yet… But _soon_ there might be. He felt tears silently running down his cheeks… He was supposed to have _been_ with the man… He was his preferred driver, after all. But he'd felt sick, and Hochstetter had gone alone on his regular route. Sympathy… The man had shown him sympathy and told him to take time off. Hochstetter showed sympathy to _no_ one. No one but himself… At least, he wasn't _supposed_ to… but the Major _had_, for _his_ sake.

He'd never felt guilt like this before. He should have been with his superior. He… he should have _been_ there, as Hochstetter had always been there for _him_. The boy had found a special place in the Major's heart. He didn't know how, but he had. He'd never had a special place in anyone's heart before… The Major had meant so much to him. He owed the man so, so _much_. Hochstetter… he had been the closest thing to a father Strauss had _had_. The Major acted the part of cruel, he acted wicked and evil… but there had still been humanity in the man; as small as it may have been, there _had_. He wished the Major could have found it again, that fleck having been lost to him for so long, almost vanishing when this cursed war had broken out.

'Death may be the greatest of all human blessings,' went the saying. Socrates, he knew. A personal favorite of his, though he didn't agree with most of the philosopher's views. Especially not after Hochstetter had ripped most of Socrates' beliefs apart. The boy shivered. He hadn't believed _that_ saying _either_, but now… Charred remains, bound to a chair… Oh god, how badly had the Major _suffered_ before finally he died? Perhaps it _had_ been a blessing for him to die. Burned alive… But the Major had inflicted pain on so many others in the past. Perhaps fire was a symbolic way for him to perish… That's what _Hochstetter_ may have believed of himself. Strauss, though, not so much. He just couldn't suffer the image of the Major roasting in an inferno of that magnitude.

Now Hochstetter was by no means a good person, and Strauss would be first to admit that. At least, not good in the sense most saw goodness. The man was cold and cunning and determined and set… But he wasn't wicked, he wasn't the devil incarnate, and he absolutely with no arguments given was _not_ one of those things, no, those people, who supported the—and he felt sick to even _think_ the word—concentration camps. In fact, Hochstetter had openly _denounced_ them. Surely that accounted for _something_… The body was the Major's, everyone believed that to be so… But Strauss couldn't accept it. He _wouldn't_. Not until it was confirmed beyond a doubt. He had to be alive, he _had_ to… The boy just wanted his father back…

_Zolle_

Zolle watched in sick delight. Watched the inner turmoil of all those in the camp. It amused him to no end. He enjoyed it, actually. He enjoyed it _endlessly_; to see such confusion and disbelief, such vulnerability. If there were any underground operations going on, he would find them soon enough. The prisoners were susceptible, and he was unaffected in the least. Hochstetter's death had been long overdue.

'He who does not fear death dies only once,' or so the Giovanni Falcone quote went. But Hochstetter had feared death. Oh _how_ he'd feared death. Zolle took a sick personal delight in wondering—considering, of course, the saying had any truth in it—how many times over the Major had died before finally succumbing. A hundred times? A thousand? Ten thousand? Oh what his rival's last thoughts must have _been_. He felt a delighted tingle and shivered at the possibilities. He had probably begged for forgiveness from any higher power that may exist. He had probably begged to be spared. Probably his thoughts had turned to his young driver, the boy who somehow—by what miracle Zolle _still_ wasn't sure—had gotten into the Gestapo. Hah! The child was more suited to reading poetry, painting, writing, participating in philosophical discussions, and other such things, than being a Gestapo man. Strauss was in no sense of the word a soldier. The boy couldn't kill if his life _depended_ on it.

Zolle had hoped for the day his rival Major would perish. He hoped desperately that the body truly _was_ Hochstetter. The Underground had done him a great service, if it were so. With Hochstetter out of the way, there was no one left to protect Stalag 13 except its Kommandant and the General who presided over it. With luck _they_ would soon be killed as _well_. Hopefully that task would be one the enemy Underground left to _him_. He didn't dare get his hopes up, though, in case by some miracle Hochstetter, the slippery eel, had managed to slip away from yet another attempt on his life.

He had never trusted the Major. He had never trusted Burkhalter. He _certainly_ didn't trust _Klink_. There were too many unanswered questions about them all, too many variables. Perhaps the Major's death, along with the Kommandant's and the General's deaths, would be the greatest asset to the German side _yet_. He would see to it soon that Burkhalter and Klink were taken care of. They were under _his_ control now, after all. Please let Hochstetter _stay_ dead this time.

_Burkhalter_

Call after call after call had been made. He was getting more questions than answers. All he wanted to know was one blasted thing! Where-was-_Hochstetter_? Who had he been with? Had he been alone? How long had he been missing? Did anyone have a clue as to what happened? Why couldn't he find any information, any answers? _God_! …Why was he _trying_ so hard? Body, charred beyond recognition, dead, Hochstetter… Nein, nein, _nein_! This wasn't happening to him. This was _unacceptable_! That Gestapo man had no _business_ going MIA. He had no business dying. It was against _orders_ for the man to die! Not just any orders, but _his_ orders. It would be just _like_ the Major to die against his commands.

All at once the General fell back into the seat and put a hand to his forehead, rubbing it stressfully. He needed to step back and look at this in a calmer state. Hochstetter wasn't dead. He adamantly _refused_ to accept that he could be so lucky until it was verified… Be so lucky… If it was his good fortune that the other man had died, why did he feel so… so _hollow_? Burkhalter looked up and rose, pacing slowly. He picked up his Schnapps and sipped deeply. He welcomed the sensation. It was a helpful distraction. He gazed silently at Hochstetter's file, gazed into the dead man's eyes… Eyes that were merely a photograph… A poem, came to mind, by Emily Dickson. It went something like, 'Because I could not stop for Death/He kindly stopped for me/The carriage held but just ourselves/And Immortality.'

Burkhalter sat, still gazing at the picture. Only minutes before the Major had left Gestapo headquarters, he'd been speaking to the man, arguing over something or other that he couldn't even _remember_ anymore. Empty… Why did he feel so empty…? He _loathed_ Hochstetter. He loathed him as much as he loathed Klink. So why, why, why, _why_, did he feel like sobbing? Why did he feel as if he were in mourning? Why was he praying to a god he wasn't sure _existed_ anymore that the remains of the unidentified victim weren't the Major's? Why did the man have to vex him so?

Burkhalter rose, going to the window. He gazed out of it, holding his glass and pondering everything. There was a void inside of him that shouldn't have been there. Hochstetter was a hated rival, he was _not_ a friend… He was not a friend… But he had been so familiar with him. He had _known_ him. He had interacted regularly with him. There were times… There were times that perhaps, just _perhaps_, if only rarely, he'd seen the man as a friend… The phone rang, another call he had to take, hopefully one that would hold answers. He went to the phone and picked it up. Peace find you, Major, he silently willed. As a comrade, not a friend… Just in case the man was truly dead.

_Klink_

He'd done very little since Zolle's announcement. He'd sat at his desk for hours, not moving, not speaking, hardly breathing… Dead… _Dead_…? It couldn't be _true_. When he'd finally moved, it was to pour himself a drink and stand there, thinking. This couldn't happen. Hochstetter couldn't be gone… It wasn't that he had _cared_ for the man at all, _heavens_ no. He'd despised Hochstetter as much as he despised Burkhalter… But at the same time… At the same time perhaps part of him _had_ cared; if only for his own gain.

He knew full well how many times Hochstetter had cut him a break. He knew full well how many times he could have been up against the wall on the man's orders… orders which had never come… Why had they never come? Why couldn't he have repaid the favor? Klink shivered, imagining the fate that might very well have been the Major's. Instantly he blocked it. He didn't want to know. He _never_ wanted to know. 'Timor mortis conturbat me…' The fear of death consumes me, or disturbs me, he wasn't sure which. It was a line of a poem by an artist whose name he'd forgotten. If he could think he would probably figure it out, both the author and whether the translation was consumes or disturbs, but as it was his thoughts were spent and tormented by one image and one alone… Hochstetter…

He hoped to god, considering the existence, that the body wasn't the Major's. He didn't know why he was so afraid it _would_ be. There was a fine line between an enemy and a friend, Klink knew. What was Hochstetter, he wondered? Certainly an enemy and a rival… but perhaps… maybe in a way he was a friend as _well_. So often he had spoken to the man. So often he had collaborated with him. To believe that this… that this was the end… There was a hole inside of him that he couldn't fill, nor find, nor understand. There was an emptiness and misery, a feeling of such despair that he just wanted to give in to it and fall to his knees in tears. He didn't know why. He'd despised Hochstetter, he'd _despised_ him… Surely one couldn't mourn their enemy… But _was_ he an enemy?

Klink gazed into the Schnapps glass. Part of him wanted to get so drunk he would forget everything. The other part refused to be so weak. It would be a dishonor to the memory of his comrade… Memory… Would that soon be all Hochstetter became to them? Perhaps he wouldn't even be _that_. No… No, he would always remember… He would _always_ remember. Oh please, any power that be, let the Major still live. Klink looked up once more, frowning. He took a sip and fought back the anger and sadness he was feeling… He missed him… He _missed_ him…

(**A/N:** Strauss is the name I put to the bespectacled young man who is often seen with Hochstetter in the series as his primary driver along with another young man without glasses named Schneider, I believe.)


	4. Return

_**Better the Enemy You Know**_

Return

Klink and Burkhalter were in Klink's office, silent. No word was exchanged. They simply sat and drew strength from one another. Not that they _knew_ they were feeding off of each other, of course, because that would just be too… different. "I suppose we might as well accept it. Major Hochstetter is no more," Burkhalter finally said.

"And Zolle is the nightmare neither of us _wanted_," Klink declared.

"I never thought I would say it, but I miss _Hochstetter_," Burkhalter admitted, grimacing at the thought of Zolle. The man had put a vice on Stalag 13 and had almost had Klink executed before the Kommandant, soldiers, or prisoners could even _process_ the Colonel was in danger. Luckily the General had stepped in and put a stop to the Gestapo man's plot. Of course that had earned him a report being made to Berlin recommending disciplinary action. Again, most fortunately, it had been 'disappeared' by Hilda and Schultz, the former of which had been spited enough to accidentally on purpose 'lose' the report, the latter of whom had burned it to a crisp. Burkhalter could see why Klink liked keeping the secretary near, besides for the obvious reasons, of course.

There was silence. Finally Klink asked, "Do you believe…" He didn't continue. The message was clear.

Burkhalter didn't answer for a long moment. Finally, though, he replied, "I _will_ not believe it. _Not_ without proof." Klink nodded. Then he wasn't the only one.

"Do you mourn him as I do?" Klink wondered.

Burkhalter looked sharply up at Klink. Soon enough he replied, thanking god he wasn't alone in feeling this way, "Jawohl… Perhaps a moment of silence is in order." The two officers stood and bowed their heads.

HH

All at once the door to the office was thrown open and a voice yelled, "Klink, what is happening in this camp? Why has security been tightened?!" Klink and Burkhalter paled, looking as if they'd heard a ghost. They spun to see their visitor and could only gape. "You are expecting an _escape_, Kom-man-dant! Do not deny it! Answer, schnell!" the man ordered, striking his gloves on the desk.

"Y-you… but… they…" Klink began, stammering. Burkhalter could only gape, flabbergasted.

"Bah! No matter. Klink, I am in need of this camp for the intensive interrogation of the citizens of Hammelburg," the man said. Looking at Burkhalter he added icily, eyes challenging the man to refuse, "_If_ there are no objections, Herr Gen-er-al."

"Hochstetter!" Burkhalter exclaimed in shock.

Hochstetter started at the tone. "What? What is going on? You two act as if you have seen a _ghost_. Why is this camp silent? You would think someone had _died_."

"_You_ did!" Klink blurted out.

HH

Hochstetter stiffened, eyes widening in shock. After a long moment he asked in a quieter voice, "I beg your pardon?" Why was Klink suddenly grinning like an idiot? Of course he _was_ an idiot, but _still_. Burkhalter looked relieved, awestruck, and for the first time in as long as Hochstetter could remember, the man was grinning in amazement, eyes reflecting disbelief and respect.

"Major Hochstetter," Klink said, approaching slowly, still grinning. Burkhalter, still in wonder, was coming around his other side. Hochstetter looked blankly from one to another. "Ha, ha, Hochstetter, you are _here_. You are really _here_."

"Hochstetter, my dear _friend_, you for once have done something _right_," Burkhalter added.

"_Excuse_ me?" Hochstetter blankly asked as he backed up against the wall. Since when was he dubbed 'friend' by Klink and Burkhalter? Why were they pressing in around him? They were in his space and he didn't trust it.

"You're _alive_!" Klink cheered, instantly pulling him into a hug. Hochstetter looked appalled.

He was equally as aghast when Burkhalter shot, "Enough, Klink, it is _my_ turn!" Promptly he was hugged by Burkhalter.

"What is going _on_ here?!" Hochstetter bellowed, livid as he pulled away from them both looking uncertain, guarded, and admittedly more than a little scared of the sudden change in the two.

"Major, you did not _hear_? The body of a Gestapo man, your size and build, was found bound to a bolted down chair in a burned barn. Why it was charred beyond _recognition_," Klink replied.

"It is widely believed to have been _you_. The barn was in the woods, just off your usual route," Burkhalter stated. "Where have you _been_?"

"I have been on _leave_," Hochstetter replied, shocked beyond belief.

"Who else but you _knew_ of this leave? Major, you have been reported as MIA Presumed Dead!" Burkhalter exclaimed.

"MIA Presumed _Dead_?" Hochstetter asked, suddenly pale.

"Yes, but it doesn't matter anymore because you are _here_! Oh Major, you cannot _imagine_ our _relief_. Zolle has been _ridiculous_," Klink said.

"_Zolle_?!" Hochstetter shot, immediately aggravated. "Where is Major Zolle?"

"Last I heard he was returning to Gestapo headquarters to retrieve your driver, Private Strauss," Burkhalter replied.

"Wait, Strauss would have read the report," Hochstetter suddenly realized. "Oh no…"

"What does your _driver_ have to do with anything?" Klink asked.

"I-I will tell you later. Klink, Burkhalter, I will be back. No one leaves this camp!" Hochstetter shot, quickly leaving.

HH

Hilda, having just returned from her lunch break, sat behind her desk, Schultz nearby. All at once the door to the Kommandant's office was thrown open and a voice ordered, "Frauline Hilda, send for my car!"

Hilda screamed in horror, going white. "G-g-g-_ghost_!" Schultz cried out, pointing in absolute terror.

Hochstetter started and blinked blankly. "M-Major Hochstetter… But-but you are _dead_," Hilda numbly said.

"Dead? _Bah_! The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated! Where is my car? Sergeant, schnell, schnell!"

"Ja-jawohl, Herr Major," Schultz stammered, quickly scrambling out of the room as Hilda stared at Hochstetter in shock, unable to believe her own eyes. How far had this rumor _spread_, Hochstetter wondered.

HH

The prisoners sat as quiet as mice. What _could_ be said? Apparently LeBeau knew, because he spoke first, asking, "Am I the only one who feels… this?"

"We've all got that, mate," Newkirk said.

"Whatever 'that' _is_," Kinch said.

"Colonel Hogan, what are we gonna do without _Hochstetter_?" Carter asked.

"Business as usual," Hogan answered. "We'll just have to be… more careful."

"Did anyone realize just how _huge_ of an impact this would have?" Kinch asked.

"Not a one," Baker answered tiredly, flipping on the radio with which they listened in on Klink's office. Then they heard the voice, the oh so familiar voice. The bunker instantly erupted into cheers, unprovoked and unexpected by all of them.

HH

Strauss cried out in pain as Zolle struck him again. "Shoot him, boy!" Zolle ordered viciously, pointing at an Allied soldier, a captive, the only surviving member of a group that had strayed too far from the bulk of the battalion.

Strauss gazed at the young man, fear in his eyes. The soldier was looking at him in terror and hatred. "Nein," Strauss answered.

"What did Hochstetter see in you? I very much wonder," Zolle remarked. "You are hardly a son that would make a father proud. You are hardly a _man_."

"I will not shoot him," Strauss refused.

"Nein? Very well. There is no need," Zolle stated. He took aim with his pistol and fired without a thought. Strauss closed his eyes tightly as the bullet echoed and the body hit the ground. He refused to open them again, even when Zolle seized his arm and shoved him down next to the dead man. "Learn to kill, Private, or you will not last a minute in this war, you worthless coward."

"Zolle, you _Dummkopf_! Why are you striking my _driver_?!" a voice bellowed. "I order you to release Private Strauss _immediately_! Bah! You dare call him a _coward_? _Idiot_, it takes no courage or brains at all to pick up a gun and _shoot_ someone. It takes all the courage in the _world_ to throw the weapon down and declare that you would rather _die_ than kill another person." The tone was furious and dangerous and angry. Zolle stiffened and paled. It couldn't _be_.

Strauss gasped, turning quickly. His eyes widened. "Major Hochstetter!" he exclaimed in glee.

Hochstetter looked at him, eyes for one of those rare times softening. Strauss leapt up. Before the Private could remember any form of discipline or training, he'd thrown himself into the man's arms, sobbing in relief. Hochstetter held the boy back in shock. He shot an ugly look at Zolle, having noticed his driver's bruises, and growled, "Not this time, Zolle. Dismissed! Raus, raus, raus schnell!" Zolle scowled and left silently, leaving the 'resurrected' man to reassure his subordinate.


End file.
